Chapter 4#

Episode#

The fist struck, and the opponent’s head tilted slightly — in that split second, all motion stopped. Shà Què heard him panting, but there was no time to observe further; footsteps were all around them both.

The number of these assassins shouldn’t be too many. Shà Què guessed that the bald man, being constrained, wouldn’t have had the ability to plant too many people within the opposing ranks, and so had chosen such a circuitous method to provoke the Fúchéng guards and the Eastern Palace guards into mutual slaughter. Excluding those still outside, there were at most a dozen or so assassins indoors.

A dozen didn’t faze Shà Què — it was the person on him who was truly clueless, not only failing to help but adding to his troubles. The momentum that had surged in him dropped sharply, and he was now thoroughly displeased.

“Your Highness,” Shà Què hooked his ring-pommel short sword up with his foot, courteous in tone, “you’re still half-asleep — why are you grabbing me? I’m not an assassin!”

The short sword landed in his hand, and his movements were swift. The instant it left the scabbard, he swung at Mí Jīn!

Mí Jīn freed a hand and blocked Shà Què with his forearm — the force was so heavy that Shà Què nearly lost his grip on the sword. Shà Què’s body still hung from his other arm by momentum; when he violently raised his body, Shà Què was hauled up along with him.

Blades flickered in the dim room as the two staggered. Shà Què had to guard against assassins and keep watch on Mí Jīn at the same time. He wanted to separate, but Mí Jīn kept clutching his collar, so he was forced to seize Mí Jīn’s wrist and yank with all his strength — not a centimeter of give.

Mí Jīn was still panting. He was extraordinarily tall, likely not of pure Zhōnggǔ blood. He hoisted Shà Què up once more and shoved him sideways.

An assassin lunged at that exact moment. Shà Què’s grip loosened slightly; with two fingers he hooked the iron ring on the sword hilt and flipped the short sword into a reverse grip in an instant.

Clang!

Shà Què deflected the strike, but both his feet were off the ground and he couldn’t generate force. Blade wind whooshed past his ears, razor-thin — he had no time to spare. He simply stepped off Mí Jīn, twisting his upper body in a half-crouched posture.

Thump!

The short sword sent the assassin tumbling. Blood still streaked Shà Què’s face when he was yanked back. The two stumbled together, crashing into a small screen beside them. The room was dim, and neither could clearly see the other’s face — but this person was thoroughly wrong. He dragged Shà Què along as though he were a lifeline.

“…Aren’t you supposed to be protecting the imperial figure?” Mí Jīn, like a beast in a trap, squeezed the words from his throat. “How is hacking at me with a sword any form of protection?”

A confused cacophony of voices drifted near and far. Shà Què slashed at his hand: “If you keep dragging me around like this, even if I had heaven-defying skills, I wouldn’t be able to use them!”

Mí Jīn abruptly shoved him away, and the sharp blades of assassins on both sides cleaved into the gap between them. Shà Què kicked the small table on the ground; it flipped up and struck the assassin on his left. Seizing that opening, he swung his blade into the assassin’s face.

The assassin’s eyes, mouth, and nose were all displaced. The sword in his hand clanged to the floor, and he stumbled backward with a scream.

Shà Què flung the blood droplets off his short blade and, across a forearm’s distance, declared: “That’s what I call a hack.”

They had already retreated into a relatively narrow corridor. This time there was no need for Mí Jīn to grab anyone — the exits ahead and behind were both sealed. The assassins swarmed forward in a pack, but Shà Què actually met them head-on. The first strike was devious: from launch to finish, barely an instant. His blade looked unremarkable in every way, save for the bird-feather-like forge pattern on the body.

The second blade drove into an assassin’s abdomen. Shà Què seized him by the hair, withdrew, and thrust three more times in rapid succession. Blood seeped down the hilt until his entire hand was slick. Shà Què pulled the short sword free and kicked the man away.

Flesh and bone, viscera and organs — Shà Què knew every part of the human body like the back of his hand. He knew how to kill in a single cut, and he knew how to execute by a thousand cuts. Assassins, or killers — in his eyes there were only two kinds: the easy to kill and the hard to kill.

The former were strangers. When there was no conflict of missions, Shà Què wouldn’t bother with them. The latter were comrades, and they were tricky — some should be killed, some should not. Each case had to be judged by circumstance.

The third cut took the throat. Because his hand slipped, the slash wasn’t clean. The assassin suffered, his gaping mouth stuffed with ragged hehhh-hahh sounds. His eyes bulged, glaring death at Shà Què.

This was a face drenched in blood. No smile — just dim, hazed eyes, a expression that, rather than coldness, leaned more toward pity.

The remaining assassins converged on Shà Què from both sides. By now half his body was crimson — his face, hands, and neck were all bloodstained. He quickened his pace, and on the next strike —

He was picked up!

Mí Jīn scooped Shà Què up, rammed sideways through the sealed wooden window, and rain poured down instantly. The two rolled down a slope. As grass and leaves lashed against them, Mí Jīn’s arm was squeezing Shà Què to the point of retching. He heard the Crown Prince’s voice, urgent: “Stop killing!”

As if Shà Què would listen to such nonsense. He shoved Mí Jīn’s face away, irritated: “Get off me!”

Mí Jīn had rainwater running into his collar. He still held his posture, motionless, staring at Shà Què: “Wash your hands clean before you touch me.”

“You’re afraid of blood?” Shà Què’s hand paused, then he switched from shoving to slapping. “Look at your own face — how much cleaner is it than mine?”

Mí Jīn’s face was also blood — clotted blood. The Crown Prince’s robes were filthy, and apart from his crown still being presentable, he was no better off than Shà Què. He truly wasn’t of pure Zhōnggǔ blood — even from his build alone, it was evident. That face, however, Shà Què had no time to examine closely; all he could tell was that his gaze was dark and predatory, ferocious to an extreme.

Shà Què slapped the Crown Prince’s cheek. The sticky blood on his hands, rinsed by the rain, merged with the dried grime on Mí Jīn’s face. Mí Jīn tilted his head slightly back, and the foul, complicated wash of blood and water came streaming down, mixing with rain as it dripped onto Shà Què’s face.

“I’m afraid of blood,” Mí Jīn said. “Can’t you tell?”

“I can tell,” Shà Què said, rain-drenched, his face a mess. “You also have a disease.”

“Good eyesight,” Mí Jīn grabbed the hand that was slapping him and pressed it to his other cheek. “Wipe this side clean too.”

Shà Què flatly refused to obey. He tried to pull his hand back, but Mí Jīn simply held it down.

They were in a flower bed beside the palace chambers, where Tíngqiánxuě — Courtyard Snow — was planted in abundance. This wasn’t their blooming season, so snow was lean and green was lush, all palm-sized leaves waving about. Shà Què had been drenched for an entire night — cold and hungry — and this wretched mission still wasn’t over.

“Fine,” Shà Què twisted his leg around Mí Jīn, leaned his upper body over, and struck again at his face. “Wipe it clean for you!”

But this time the sensation was strange.

Under the gray sky, Mí Jīn didn’t dodge. He was still staring at Shà Què, and on the neck that had just been washed clean by blood, scale-like patterns resembling those of a serpent were slowly emerging. He leaned in, not even glancing at the assassins behind, mocking Shà Què: “The thing you were just protecting is this!”

Because of these snake-scale patterns, the rain, which had been showing signs of stopping, instead fell heavier. The surrounding flowers and leaves emitted a rustling sound, as if a snake were crawling out of the corners, converging on Shà Què along with the rain. Shà Què’s hair stood on end instantly, and he recalled the Mi clan’s family crest.

The Mi clan’s crest was the hēixiè — a black divine serpent said in legend to command wind and rain. Though the Mi clan couldn’t truly conjure storms, the battles they won did indeed fall disproportionately on rainy days. It was said that on the night before Mí Línán’s uprising, a physiognomist told him that the Huì-lóng bloodline of the Niè clan had long since been severed; if the world were to change hands, it should be the Mi clan, who shared the same element of “Water.”

Mí Línán was fond of killing — perhaps also due to the black serpent’s bloodline at work. Every time he had an episode, he became extraordinarily savage, and so the palace attendants would change color at the mere mention of “an episode.” There were also rumors that the two children Mí Línán had lost in infancy were monsters covered entirely in scales.

Mí Jīn had refused to see anyone for three days. Yùchí Liáng assumed he was feigning it, but the truth was the exact opposite — he was truly having an episode.

Shà Què’s fingertips touched those snake-scale patterns. At first they were just markings, but as Mí Jīn rubbed all the blood from his hand onto them, they became real. Shà Què didn’t like the sensation and kicked Mí Jīn with his foot.

Mí Jīn gripped tighter, as though he would snap Shà Què’s hand at any moment. An assassin rushed in — in the instant of his lunge, Mí Jīn seized him by the throat. Then, the man, comparable to a rag doll, was slammed into the grass!

The assassin opened his mouth, blood leaking from the corners of his lips. The area of his Adam’s apple was deformed; he couldn’t even produce a scream.

Mí Jīn’s strength wasn’t just great — he couldn’t control it. He released the corpse and still wanted to drag Shà Què along. The scene before him flickered red and black; he could faintly hear Āyē calling his childhood name.

Nàjiā. Āyē said: Act now.

Mí Jīn’s mind, which had just returned, drifted off again. He wouldn’t let tears fall, but he couldn’t help it. Why is it me? Āyē, Father — why did it have to be me?

Ding, ding, ding.

These were the sounds Shà Què had heard when he drew his blade indoors. They came from under the eaves — the iron wind horses hanging at the four corners of the palace. The air was cold; the sounds of fighting before the steps had faded. Shà Què, being dragged by Mí Jīn, noticed him using Shà Què’s hand to wipe his own face again. The force was heavy, as though he were trying to scrub every trace of blood away.

Scalding raindrops had mixed in among them. Shà Què didn’t know what they were — they wet his fingertips and seeped between his fingers. Sānqīng, who never felt pain, twitched his fingers, and suddenly found it very funny.

“What’s wrong with you?” He tilted his head slightly, and on his freshly washed face was an expression of concern. “Are you very sad?”

Mí Jīn’s expression was dark and he didn’t answer. He pulled at Shà Què’s waist tag and saw there was no name on it.

“Today is my first day on night-guard rotation,” Shà Què said, pulling the waist tag back with his remaining free hand. “What a coincidence — I actually stumbled upon such treasonous business.”

Mí Jīn’s lip curled faintly, letting Shà Què pull the tag back. The two stood filthy from head to toe, one tall and one short. Unable to read his intentions, Shà Què spoke: “Your Highness, your Eastern Palace battalion commander—”

Mí Jīn leaned forward, pressing Shà Què back step by step. This was harder than killing. Shà Què shoved him first — to no effect — then tried bracing him with his shoulder, but he was still heavy as a millstone, the bulk of his body looming over Shà Què, even blocking the path.

“Go claim credit from Yùchí Liáng,” Mí Jīn looked half-dead, eyelids drooping, certain that Shà Què couldn’t get away. “You were so devoted in your protection — he’ll certainly reward you handsomely.”